


Because we are doomed

by peachys



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 18:53:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4533324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachys/pseuds/peachys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one in which Patroclus buries Achilles</p>
            </blockquote>





	Because we are doomed

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry

There was no numbness, that merciful feeling of  _not feeling anything._ The sorrow came quickly, piling up inside of him, filling up his lungs so he couldn't breathe, tearing through his skin. He sees the golden hair first, and then sees how it frames that perfectly sculpted face and at first Patroclus thinks he is just sleeping. His eyes are closed and his face is smooth but those sunsets that painted his eyelids are gone, replaced with the vast grayness of a rainy day.

They carry his body to the camp, _to Patroclus,_ who is standing there like a statue watching everything moving so slowly in front of him and not being able to do anything about it. He's covered in blood and Patroclus is shocked at the realization that it's _his_ blood. No one as golden as Achilles should have blood so vibrantly red. 

Finally they lay his body down in front of him. He's not moving, so perfectly still and Patroclus thinks of all the times they had slept together, how peaceful Achilles was, how often he had watched the rise and fall of his chest but now there is none of that. He falls to his knees because that's all he can think of to do, all he _can_ do though he wants to scream and shout and curse the gods for taking Achilles, golden, vibrant Achilles from him. It wasn't fair, but since when were the gods ever fair?

Patroclus' hands roam over his face, so cold and unresponsive. He wills Achilles to open his eyes, to let him know that he's okay. Someone puts their hand on his shoulder, hot and heavy and so unwelcome that Patroclus finds his voice and lets out a pained shout. The sound can barely be called human, and it's loud enough to leave his ears ringing but it gets the message across and the hand is no longer on his shoulder.

"Achilles," he says. _Achilles, Achilles,_ over and over until his name is nothing but sound. He holds his body close despite the blood and the already there stench. Achilles is cold, so cold. "Please, Achilles." He tried again, as if somehow even through death Achilles would hear him, and by some miracle wake up. 

"Patroclus," It is Odysseus that speaks first and Patroclus can feel the rage bubbling up inside of him, letting it's presence be known over the sorrow deeply embedded in Patroclus' bones. 

" ** _No!_**  " He shouts though never taking his eyes off of his beloved Achilles' face. "I do not want to hear anything from you. I do not want your condolences, or your excuses. This is your fault, all of you. He was just a boy."  _Was._ It hits Patroclus like a spear tip to the gut. Achilles no longer  _is._ "He was just a boy and you forced him to fight in a war that was not his."

After that, there is nothing they can say. 

-

Somehow Patroclus manages to pick up Achilles and carry him to their tent, though he supposes it was just his now. Soon, it would belong to no one. 

He lays Achilles down so carefully and then collapses next to him. He felt heavy, and he briefly wondered if that is how Atlas felt, with the weight of the world on his shoulders but what Patroclus felt seemed much heavier than the world. 

Then, he weeps. Finally the hot tears rush forward and fall in steady streams. His sobs are loud, rushing through him and leaving him shaking, unable to recover for the next wave. He's drowning on nothing. 

He thinks of what he will have to do, he thinks about having to lay Achilles down on that pyre, he thinks of his beautiful, half-god body turning to nothing but ash. But he also thinks about the day before and the way Achilles had had his arms around Patroclus and his face buried in his neck. "Most beloved," he had said against the spot where Patroclus' neck met his shoulder. "Patroclus." That moment seemed worlds away from this torment. 

-

Briseis can hear him crying, the whole camp can. She wants to comfort him, but she knows he will not let her. 

She cries too, though not for Achilles. She doesn't think she can cry for Achilles. She cries for Patroclus. He's hurting so badly he will not eat, will not sleep. It seems like the only thing he knows how to do is cradle what was Achilles, and weep. At night she hears him retching in the bushes nearby, but his stomach is empty and there is nothing he can give up. 

-

Patroclus can feel her presence there in the suffocating tent. 

"Thetis," he says. His voice is raw and he doesn't recognize it as his own. 

"I thought I told you not to say my name again." She doesn't sound angry but she is looking down at him as if he were nothing, merely an ant that she could (and should) step on if only to get him out of her way. 

"I do not care." Maybe she would strike him dead. He could only hope. 

Her dark eyes flicker to her son and an emotion passes through them that Patroclus doesn't care to figure out. "It is time to bury him."

He lets out a strangled, pained sound, half-way between a sob and a gasp. This was the one thing he had been dreading. He did not know if he could do it. He'd throw himself on the pyre with Achilles and let the flames consume their flesh together. 

She says something else but here voice sounds just like the waves crashing against the shore and he can't make out her words properly. "...Can't rest..." he hears. And then she tells him one more time to bury him and she's gone. 

Patroclus lets his head fall on Achilles' belly, the flesh there getting slippery with his tears. "Achilles."

Patroclus hoped he had achieved his glory, he hoped he had gotten all the fame he had wished for. He hoped people would sing his name for ages because Achilles deserved to be remembered but there was a certain bitterness to the fact that only the warrior Achilles would be remembered. They would sing about the deaths he had caused, his greatness with a spear. Achilles, half-god, the greatest warrior of his generation. 

But that wasn't the Achilles Patroclus had known. Soft, gentle Achilles. Some said his hands were made for murder but the way he had cradled Patroclus' face so gently spoke another story. Those moments were for Patroclus alone now. 

-

Briseis watches him carry Achilles to where the pyre is. Some offer their help but he refuses it. He is strangely composed, his face placid and free of tears but his eyes are red, and he has bags under his eyes look like storms. 

A wave of uneasiness washes over the camp and Briseis looks over to find Thetis standing there, her back straight as an arrow. There are sea-nymphs too, and these Patroclus allows to touch the body. They clean it with rose-oil and nectar and when they bring the flowers Patroclus is the one that weaves them through his golden hair. Briseis felt a certain sadness. She did not know how it felt to lose a lover but she knew what it felt like to lose her family, those she was closest to, and it was something she did not wish on anyone. 

The flame is lit, and they watch it consume his body. The sea-nymphs weep, but Thetis does not, and neither does Briseis. 

When the fire dies out Patroclus is the one that collects his ashes and places them in a golden urn. He raises it high above his head for all to see. "When I am dead, I charge you to mingle our ashes and bury us together." Briseis thinks Thetis will object, but she does not. She is gone. 

-

"Who did it?" He asks Odysseus. "Who did this?"

Odysseus looks at him for a few seconds. He doesn't think he should answer, but does anyway. "Hector."

And then he can hear Achilles' voice, so full of excitement.  _What has Hector ever done to me?_

_This,_ Patroclus thinks as he leaves the tent without another word.  _This is what Hector has done to you and I hope the gods may forgive me for what I will do to him._

_-_

She watches the thing in pieces. Tousled, dark brown hair, a limp hand, blood-stained armor. 

Patroclus. 

They carry his body carefully, and when they pass by her she sees his face and knows not to cry. 

He looked peaceful, like a child, and his lips form a barely-there smile but it's there and she knows that finally Patroclus has found his peace. She can almost see them in the underworld, reaching for each other. Their happiness so bright like a thousand suns illuminating the darkness. 

She knows Patroclus will be celebrated a hero as much as Achilles. She is the one that is charged with collecting his ashes and placing them in the urn. She watches them carve their names into the stone with a smile. 

A C H I L L E S, it reads and beside it, P A T R O C L U S. 


End file.
